


Paradox

by Fanfic_Lover_9



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_Lover_9/pseuds/Fanfic_Lover_9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa takes a minute to ponder her stance with Petyr Baelish and how he makes her feel (from her point of view).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fiery Depths of Confusion

Confused… _She thought_ …that’s how I feel. That’s how I’m feeling. So very confused. I know where I am…I don’t know where I am. I need fire…I don’t need fire. It helps…it burns. What to do?

With the snap of my fingers, or the sound of my voice, the flame appears. It guides me, it warms me, it shows me the way. It’s spreading now…getting wilder now…too close. Yes, much too close. Close enough to burn me yet not a scar appears on my body.

With the snap of my fingers, or the sound of my voice, the flame disappears. I’m lost, I’m cold, I can’t see where I’m going. It’s desolate now…It’s scary here now…where is here? No, I don’t know where I am. In this moment of ineffability, I feel lonely yet not a sign of loneliness appears onto my face.

Shall I engage my little heartwarming flame? Or shall I let it alone? I must keep my distance, alas the flame escapes me. I must be close enough, alas the flame burns me. Appear? Disappear? Which one shall I choose? It’s so hard. I’m so hot…and then I’m so cold. I feel raging affection and then I feel myself being cast aside.

I love that little flame. Then again, I hate that little flame. It burns with enthusiasm and the beautiful bright embers that emerge from the depths burns everything they touch. When it burns no longer, no longer can I see the beautiful embers—only the darkness laid out before me filled with depression and endless boredom. The flame is my friend. The flame is my enemy. The flame is dangerously brilliant. The flame is dangerously dreadful. The flame is my family. The flame is my lover…

 

Petyr…what will it take for you to guide me, not burn me; to help me, not harm me; to make me trust you, not fearful of you? I have felt the heat of many enemies before and neither had fazed me. But you…you seared me. Not my skin, but my heart and my soul. No one else has ever been able to inflict that amount of damage upon me. The essence within me is still burning…be it with hate or love, I have no idea, but it burns with a desire…with a passion…for vengeance…for justice.

It hurts to love you, and it hurts to hate you. What makes it hurt so much is that everything I hate about you is everything that I love about you; your cleverness, your wit, your cunning, your lies, your master plans, and your success in them. I’m so…confused. I have always been able to decide whether to love or hate someone. Not with you. I neither love nor hate you. I both love and hate you. Like a flame, when you are within my presence, it’s hard to penetrate that unbearable nonluminous tip to reach the centre of your vulnerability. When your flame is absent from me, I can learn nothing from or about you. To keep you near, to keep you far…it’s so hard to conclude when you refuse to meet me halfway. You say I am what you want. I understand that you want all of me, but it wouldn’t be fair if I gave you all of me, and I receive only but a tiny piece of you. Before I hand you all of me, I want you to hand me all of you. I want to contain you, to put you into a lantern so that I may keep you with me and know that you won’t lose control of the flames that you gamble with so effortlessly. I want to keep you in my hearth to feel the warmth that emanates from your presence. I want to hold you in my hands and gaze upon the light the shines from your ever-blooming brilliance.

Everything is everything…nothing is nothing…some things are just some things. But even with some of these things, existing between everything and nothing, there is balance. I need balance. But you, my love, have no balance. You are the greatest paradox with everything being nothing; nothing being everything; some things being everything and nothing at all. I’d be a fool to believe that you are truly the embodiment of simplicity. Until then, _she blew out the candle on her bedside_ , I’ll have to wait until the smoke clears.


	2. Beneath False Songs of the MockingBird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a narrative point of view (though not a traditional narration) of the Sigil of Petyr Baelish and how it relates to him as a character. It also explains how his sigil defines him and stresses why he lacks sencerity for others including Sansa at times.

He cried and he cried and he cried. Over and over again, every night…every day…the tears managed to find their way down his cheeks. A little boy, nine years of age—in a place full of strangers, surrounded by those with an equality far beyond him who was not their equal. Now, in a place filled with darkness and threatening sorrow. The sounds that accompany him now, the many songs of others. Which sound? Which sound is the bare truth of the Mockingbird? What is his song of truth?

While he was treated good enough as a child, he was never actually really good enough…or was he? If the answer was yes, no one knew…no one cared to find out. Smart and clever he was, that Petyr Baelish. A trait that can be used for either great good or great evil. But, really, he had no evil intentions. Only good ones. Good ones that included songs of love, glory and justice. Unfortunately, even good intentions were never enough to earn him a pass from being tortured and bullied by children his age. Namely Edmure and his friends whom all shared the same personality.

A poor lord from poor lands. A small boy with meek means. A big ego and a big heart. Yes, he was innocent. Innocent indeed. Later, this little boy learned to love only himself. A secure love is what he has for himself. What happened to that little boy? He didn’t grow up. No, he’s lost somewhere. Purposely hidden. Hidden somewhere in the unknown. Where to reach the unknown is far beyond anyone. How did he get there? These questions act as clues.

As he cried, who was there to dry his eyes?

As he wept, longed to be treated fairly, who consoled him?

As he was beguiled one drunken night, who was there to defend him?

As he screamed for help as his skin was ripped apart, who genuinely answered his call?

As he lied supine, who attempted to heal the broken pieces of him? A stolen and broken heart, and stolen and broken virtue, stolen and broken honour?

Who in his perfect little world that was swiftly falling apart wrapped their arms around him and rejuvenated his broken spirit?

Whose hand was waiting to catch him when he fell?

Who was willing to guide him and show him the way?

Who fought for him, died for him, cried for him, and called his name when he was utterly lonely and in despair?

For all these questions, only one simple answer for every one of them; himself. Lysa could have been that friend who was there for him. When she took it upon herself to take away from him what he wished to give away, it obliterated everything good he might have once thought of her after she victimised him when he was at his most vulnerable point.

Before he stepped on the boat and sailed away from the Riverlands, he learned many things from the pain and suffering that he had endured—he learned most importantly, that he was the only one who had his best interest at heart. A sad and painful truth. And from then on, he trusted and loved no one but himself. Lending out his bare soul and unguarded heart proved to backfire against him the worst way. Keeping whatever remained safe under lock and key was the best option. Yes, away from hurtful predators did he hide his heart. It was the only way he could keep his sanity. One more crack in his soul may condemn him to psychopathy—maybe even to death. You’re the last attempt.

With nothing to give, all he has now to offer is the trust that has been tainted by so many and his very soul that is near to being consumed completely—two very delicate treasures of his humanity. The man in him—littlefinger—refuses to relinquish what’s left from the rubble for his own safety. The boy in him—Petyr Baelish—wants nothing more than to hand over what is left. Even he battles with both Petyr and Littlefinger. Who shall he choose? Who should he listen to? Sansa, you're within the depths of his balance now. You can either take and destroy what’s left of him in a single move. Or you can take and heal what’s left of him in a single move. Either movement from you to whichever side can tip the scale favourably or not. His life, his existence, his heart, mind, body, and soul is within your hands—something the boy in him knows. Information that the man in him refuses to show. The boy is hidden deep within the ever animated body of the man with the mockingbird pinned to his chest. Hidden so deep that even his good intentions are yet again being overlooked.

He cries, and cries, and cries every night. Screaming but never being heard. Wanting to give but can’t take the risk. Wanting to love but can’t take the risk. Wanting to confess unconditionally but can’t take the risk...the risk of being hurt and emotionally destroyed. Wanting to care…but has forgotten how. That boy…Petyr Baelish…Sansa, how to save him? He’s drowning within himself. Losing himself as he begins to fade away. Restore him Sansa...will you? Restore him before the titan overtakes him completely. He’s lost the key to his heart. But you, Sansa, you are the spare. Reopen his wound—the one that shrieks “I’ll die for love!” Take your hand and dig deep within that wound. Take hold of his heart…you have the power. Squeeze, but not too tight. He’ll grimace in pain. Call his name…Petyr Baelish. He’ll answer, but with songs that are not his own. He’ll answer with many falsehoods—fight against them—fight against them until you hear his song—the song that he was born with. It is the most beautiful, delicate sound ever made by a bird. A song of such beauty that is undeniable his own. His Vulnerability.

Sansa, you must think that it ill-gotten for such a beautiful song to be masqueraded by others of unequal comparison. I’ll say understand…when there is beauty…there is delicacy. When there is beauty…there is pain. When there is beauty…there is a sacredness that can be tainted forever by the wrong hands. He refuses…the mockingbird refuses to allow his song of beauty to be heard because there is vulnerability. He himself has attempted to gingerly mend the cracks instilled upon him by others. He loves, but does not trust.

Squeeze his heart, assure him, confess to him, cry for him, help him, guide him, teach him how to release. Remove Littlefinger. Slay the titan that guards the boy. He’s still there…waiting. Waiting for his ever rusting keyhole to the cage of his soul to be opened again. To be liberated once more. Something impossible to do without you. Set him free. Once he’s free…you’ll hear that song of his…that song unheard by many. You Sansa, will hear what has been hidden for many, many years. The naked truth of the song of the mockingbird.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Fanfic revolving around Petyr and Sansa. I love these two together and would want nothing more than to see them together. What inspired this idea for me is the fact that their relationship can go either two ways leading to a life of romance and happiness, or death and despair...but it all depends on how Sansa feels about Petyr because we all know how he feels about her. Hopefully, this will not be my only fanfic about them.


End file.
